


A Code of Honor

by ShakespeareanMusings



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Gen, Mobsters, One Shot, Other, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-23
Updated: 2018-11-23
Packaged: 2019-08-28 03:47:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16715999
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShakespeareanMusings/pseuds/ShakespeareanMusings
Summary: In a world of crimes and crooks, the man with the most fearsome reputation is king. Violence and murder are integral part of that world. It's necessary. It goes without saying.But the Underworld is not lawless. The Code is infallible and must be adherend to. Failure to comply is failure to live up. Unnecessary provocation is one of the greatest taboos a good fella can perform.After all, the smell of blood does not only attract the blue-coloured sharks. It attracts the scourge of war too.





	A Code of Honor

**Author's Note:**

> Another oneshot that potentially could be more. Right now, I'm just writing freely in an attempt to soothe a tired mind.

_“Let me tell you a secret. Justice is just a pretty word, pranced around with by politicians hellbent on keeping their seat or lawyers desperate enough to pull the J card and trying to keep you in their pockets a little longer. It’s an illusion, a magic trick made to fool idiots. King’s Landing learned the lack of such an existence in a pretty straightforward way. You see, justice benefits only the upper part of the food chain. They’ll wink at you, give a little Cheshire smile and tuck in a couple of bills in your right breast-pocket with a nice little pat on it to boot, and there right there, is where they get their justice. Plain and simple. You won’t see Mr. Billionaire-too-fat-for-his-seat sweat those pounds away in prison. It’s the little man that suffers under the system. The taxi-driver, the errand boy, the trashman. Your friendly neighbour basically._

_If the hand refuses to feed you, there’s only one thing you can do in retaliation, right? Keep your meek little head bent and pretend all is well. Wrong. You bite the fucking limb off._

_Get your message across. You want justice for your sister? Or your son? Or dad? Your fucking dog even? You better fight for it, because it sure as hell won’t miraculously fall on your lap. That’s the status quo in King’s Landing. Forced to pick up the bat and smash in their skulls. The system ain’t there to help goody-two-shoes. It’s there to eat up poor fuckers like them._

_If the end result gets you buried six feet under, you got out with guns blazing at least. Did as much damage as you could and made sure those fuckers remembered you. Got out with your pride and dignity intact. If not, then you’re marked as dangerous. And that’s the edge you need to survive, to thrive in a place like this. It makes the difference between a player of this twisted game and a little man getting crushed under its wheel. Here, in this city of crime, being a pain in the ass ain’t good, but at least you won’t be treated as a shit-stain under someone’s boot.”_

~ _Sandor Clegane_ , _Thoughts of a hardened criminal_ ~

* * *

**JON I**

**KING’S LANDING**

* * *

 

“What does Daenerys see in this godforsaken city anyway…”

The remnants of Tormund’s cigarette blew away from the ashtray sitting on the veranda, carried away by the wind and spreading that insufferable smell all across his balcony again. Jon had lost count how many times he reproached the man to stop smoking inside his penthouse, since the smell easily brought to him a splitting headache from his cranium all the way to the base of his nape. The ruddy-haired man would laugh every single time in that booming voice of his, make some joke nobody could understand and saunter off like he wasn’t just told off by one of the most powerful men in Westeros. But Jon loved him for it all the same.

He took a sip of his whisky, bringing the rim of his glass to his lips and tilting it just so that a small flood could tumble down his tongue and wash his teeth and mouth with the taste of _home_. Whisky from the North, especially Stark whisky, always made Jon feel a piece of home.

It’s been two years now since Jon came back from Essos and fully took over the reins of Uncle Aemon’s empire alongside his aunt. Daenerys and Jon have been busy, _very_ _busy_ , properly navigating an enterprise the magnitude of the Golden Company. It felt like steering a tanker through a narrow channel thousands of miles long. And that had been the easy part. The difficult part… well… that’s a story for another time perhaps.

A hand went to his red tie, loosening it a little from its place as he kept gazing out of his curtain glass wall across the skyline of King’s Landing, the countless lights of the capital bathing the city in an iridescent glow of crimson, azure and gold. If Daenerys was around, she’d surely comment how it all looked straight out of a picturesque scenario; a typical attorney all dressed up and dandy standing in his penthouse, whisky glass raised to shoulder height and brooding over the latest mind-cracking case he was assigned. She wouldn’t be far off the mark.

Only, it wasn’t a case he was brooding over, and it wasn’t the title of lawyer he borne.

The oaken doors leading towards his office creaked and Satin’s finely polished shoes clicked on the marble floor as he entered.

“Lord Targaryen? A moment of your time, please?”

“What is it, Satin? Be frank about it, the situation doesn’t ask for tiptoeing around.”

He bit his lip and closed the doors behind him, trudging forward until he halted in front of Jon’s finely cut ebony desk.

“We got a call from Gilly, sir. It’s about the kind doctor.” Jon fully turned at hearing the name of Sam’s wife, placing his glass next to his closed laptop and taking a seat on the grand leather chair where his black fur coat was draped over. Jon eyed his butler and housekeeper and Satin answered the prodding countenance by placing a smart phone on his table, the screen still on, telling him someone was waiting on the other side of the line. He picked it up the moment he recognized the number.

**_“Gilly…?”_ **

**_“Oh Jon… I don’t even know where to begin…”_** Her voice was hoarse, like sandpaper across bark wood, strained and on the verge of breaking. Jon could easily tell she had been crying recently, picking up her distressed and erratic intervals of breathing and his mind started trying to find a way to calm her through the phone.

 ** _“Listen love, there’s no need to explain anything, Varys told me what happened. Just… tell me how Sam is doing right now.”_**   With abated breath, Jon waited for Gilly to answer. Through a haze of calls, shouts and whispers, Jon came to the knowledge what happened to his friend and dropped everything, from meetings with his underlings to checking the safehouses. Sam’s condition had become his priority. Alongside tracking down the dead man walking responsible.

 ** _“He’s… alive. Still unconscious, but stable.”_** A sigh wormed its way out, and Jon was keenly aware he was holding it for dear life. He nodded and grabbed for a notepad. The possibility that Gilly’s answer right then could have been a different one and impact everything around was a frightening thought. With just a mere word, Jon’s world came back down on a soft cushion instead of plummeting into a violent air-crash.

 ** _“Send me the hospital’s address. I’ll be on my way right now and take care of this.”_** Another pause, but this time it wasn’t accompanied by little and barely restrained sobs.

**_“It’s… St. Baelor’s Street 132, the big white building with Baelor’s statue in the front?”_ **

**_“Yes, I know that_ _hospital. Hold tight, I’ll be there within half an hour.”_**

**_“Thank you Jon… Sam and I… we wouldn’t… we wouldn’t know what we’d do without you.”_ **

**_“That’s supposed to be my line. You’re as much family to me as Daenerys is. Always remember that. Now, keep the doctors busy and tell them someone from Golden Co. Enterprise is coming, they’ll give Sam supervision without break and the best medical care available.”_** He smiled, grim and taut. The occasion didn’t give much reason for it, but Jon figured it was only appropriate. He never was any good in providing comfort, but hearing his own words made him think he actually accomplished something this time. It at least stilled Gilly’s tears.

**_“I will Jon, I’ll see you soon."_ **

He ended the call with a firm press on the red ‘end call’ bar, placed the device back on the table and grabbed his coat from its scruffs, throwing it over his black dress jacket. He pinned down Satin with a look that told of cold and barely restrained fury, his jaws set and muscles straining inside his skin like the strings of a bow about to release its arrow.

“By the time I’m back from the hospital, I want Varys here. Whoever did this to Sam and thinks he can get away with impunity is sorely mistaken. Tell Pypar and Grenn to get ready and meet me downstairs, they’ll escort me to St. Baelor’s Hospital.” Satin nodded to every sentence, and scurried into another hall when Jon stepped into the anteroom to get this business taken care of.

Jorah Mormont, the obedient bear he was, stood vigil in front of the ironbound door, and stepped aside, pressing the button next to him and offering that gruff nod he was so infamous for.

“If you see Daenerys, tell her I’m off to St. Baelor’s. There has been an incident.”

“Nothing major I hope, Jon?”

Jon placed his hand on the cold surface of the door, side-glancing at their family’s ever faithful bodyguard and grounded through his teeth the next words.

“Sam’s been hospitalized. Beaten within an inch of his life.” Now, an inkling bit of emotion seeped through on Jorah’s usually stoic face, barely noticeable for the untrained eye, but Jon was far more perceptive than your average Joe. Jorah had a soft-spot for the kind doctor since Samwell cured his greyscale a couple of years ago. A weird kind of friendship budded between the Targaryen’s guardian and the good doctor. Comparable to that of a bear tolerating the constant scratches of a squirrel. “I’ve made a few calls around. Pyp and Grenn are on their way here as we speak. When I’ve figured out what happened and who’s to blame for his condition, I’ll tie his feet on an anchor and throw him for the sharks . Of that, I can assure you.”

“I don’t doubt that, Jon. Go now, see to the good doctor. I’ll be here guarding the penthouse and Lady Daenerys when she arrives.” Jon nodded once and was about to make for the door, when Jorah’s firm hand landed on his shoulder and turned him around to see his grimace. “Make it slow and painful. Samwell is a good and honest man, and whoever did this to him will need to suffer from more than just a couple of missing nails or broken bones.”

“Oh, you got that right.” Jon muttered with ominous promise, his hand flexing and unflexing at the mere desire of wrapping them around _something_ and smashing it to pieces.

His hold on Jon’s shoulder slacked and Jorah offered one more dip of his head before he took his spot next to the door again, falling back into the skin of a living statue.

The Targaryen penthouse was on the top floor of King’s Landing’s tallest building, Aegon’s Spire. Fifty-two floors Jon had to go through before he hit the parking garage. During the whole descend down, Jon was trying to come up with names to put a face to the perpetrator of Sam’s beating. He came out blank, not a single clue as to who had the _sheer_ _audacity_ to make such a move. Everyone that mattered a dime in his world knew Samwell Tarly, just your run-of-the-mill overworked doctor saving the lives of King’s Landing, was once a pupil of Old Aemon and Jon Targaryen’s closest friend. Nobody dared to lay a finger on him or his wife. He was practically a Targaryen himself. A brother to Jon, and later Daenerys, in all but blood. The Underworld knew who to take, and who not to take. Clearly someone didn’t read between the lines of their contract when they were made a good fella of the Westerosi Underworld. 

This single act could very well trigger a full-blown gang war. And Jon was more than happy enough to make a _lot_ of people bleed if Sam’s injuries proved too fatal.

With a loud ‘ding’ and Jon found himself in the parking garage. He stepped out and already two well built men clad in sharp suits were standing stock still in front of him, complete with shades resting on the bridge of their noses and gun belts firmly strapped to their waists, the whole shtick that screamed ‘made men’.

“Pyp, get the car around, we’re gonna have a long night, lads. Grenn, set up a call with Gilly and keep taps on Sam’s condition. I don’t want to miss a single muscle twitching. If he doesn’t make it through the night… Hope that nobody is around or I’ll rinse the nearest fool unfortunate enough to be close with a rain of bullets.”

Pyp and Grenn were just as much Sam’s friends as he was Jon’s, and there was no need to tell these two twice what they were supposed to do. In less than five minutes, Jon was seated inside the black grand saloon Daenerys paid a small fortune for, whisky already slushing around inside his rippled glass, while Pyp was driving through the packed lanes of King’s Landing with the speed of a car thief. Grenn kept Gilly busy in sharing details of Sam’s condition, the doctor’s dedication and whatnot, more so to elevate some of the stress the poor woman was feeling rather than getting a clear image of the situation. She needed an ear to talk to, just to not allow herself to go mad, and Grenn was more than willing to listen.

It took twenty minutes for the three to screech into a halt before Baelor the Blessed’s statue, Jon already out of the car and sauntering purposely with Grenn in tow as Pyp went off to park the car. As they entered St. Baelor’s Hospital, they were greeted by frenzied patients guided by the gentle hands of nurses and appeased by work-beaten doctors. It was New Year’s Eve after all, and people were flooding in, victims of their own drunken shenanigans and what have you.

He brought his fur coat a little closer around himself. Wearing only a three piece suit in the dead of winter, no matter how powerful he looked in it, could only provide for so much warmth. Winter in King’s Landing was still a piss-poor imitation of what the North could provide, but still, years spending in the incandescent weather of Essos and now here in King’s Landing had cost him his ingrained resilience against the cold.

Jon steered through the throng of frantic people, Grenn gently shoving aside one person after another before the desk of the reception finally came into view. A pretty young woman, her mousy hair tight in a practical bun and wearing blue scrubs sat behind it, scribbling down notes on a piece of paper while the horn of the phone was pressed between her ear and shoulder.

**_“Yes sir, an ambulance will be on its way in about fifteen minutes. No sir, I can’t guarantee that, the current circumstances make it difficult to draw an estimation. I understand sir, I really do, but that’s not up to me, the trauma centre is better equipped with such knowledge. No sir, keep pressing on the wound firmly, your brother will make it through if you stem the bleeding properly. Keep him conscious and don’t let him get cold, it’s important that he doesn’t get cold or he’ll catch a fever. Yes sir, I’m just doing my job, thank you sir, I sincerely wish for your brother to recover from his injury. Good night sir.”_ **

She placed the black horn back on its place with a sigh, composed herself, and regarded both Jon and Grenn with a polite smile that looked little too practiced and phony. Her smile briefly twitched bemusedly, her pearly eyes taking a nervous glint to see a man all clad in black fancy dress clothes, complete with waistcoat, tie and a fur coat draped over his shoulders. Perhaps she was a little intimidated by aristocratic appearances? Could be very possible. Or it could be Grenn behind him looking like was about to murder someone.

“Uhm, good evening sir, how may I help you?”

“We’re here for a patient. Samwell Tarly?” Grenn croaked in his usual voice before Jon could speak, brusque and so very much northern in his speech.

“I’m sorry, sirs, but visiting hours has long passed. We cannot allow any–” The girl made a small squeak at Grenn’s not-so-friendly grumble, and Jon placed a hand on his friend’s shoulder, designating with his head to step aside. The startled woman looked like she was about to call in security if those doe-like eyes wide with fright were a given.

“Look Ms…” He caught a glimpse of her nameplate. “…Jenny. Would you be so kind enough and point us to the IC? We’re not here for visiting, just to make sure my friend’s wife is doing alright. She’s shaken up and could really use a shoulder. Please, it would mean a lot to us.”

Luckily for both of them, Jon knew his way around with women. He didn’t like flaunting around sporting a pearly white grin and charm people, but a little smile and soft eyes always managed to wrench something loose in a woman. Looks like he accomplished it again judging by the small smile and the little tinges of pink on her cheeks.

Jenny nodded hesitantly, and pointed towards the stairs leading up before telling them to turn a corner twice to their right and head straight for the elongated corridor. They would eventually come across a sign that read ‘intensive care’ in blue neon lights.

And so, after a grateful nod, Jon and Grenn and took the stairs and rounded the corners they were instructed to, and soon enough, the sign of the IC came into view, and with it, a bench where an absentminded woman had her arms wrapped around herself, staring intently towards the ground as though the answer to all the questions in the world lay sprawled right before her, but she couldn’t find the one she was looking for. Jon recognized her in a heartbeat.

“Gilly…?”

At the mention of her name, she snapped to attention and bolted to her feet, the fog lifted from her eyes.

“Jon…?” She whispered, tear stains still visible on her apple-round cheeks. Her sneakers tapped against the floor as she ran towards Jon’s open arms, who caught her readily. “Oh Jon… Sam… he’s… I didn’t know what I… there was so much blood and…” Jon soothed her by carding a hand through her russet hair and then gently scrubbing her scalp over and over as incoherent words tumbled down her mouth against his shoulder.

“Calm down for a moment, take a deep breath and then tell me what happened.” She did as she was bid, regulating her intakes of air until the little whimpers escaping her lips subsided, her chest no longer shrinking and expanding like her frantically beating heart. Feeling her calmed down, Jon loosened his embrace around her and held Gilly at arm’s length.

“Now, tell me everything you know…”

* * *

The insipid room was a torture to look upon. The walls painted in standard white and grey, the typical soothing colours hospitals usually employ on their buildings, did little to comfort Jon as he sat at Sam’s bed, clutching his unbandaged hand with his own and tracing his hand’s skin with his thumb. The constant, periodic beeping of the machine next to the bed keeping track of Sam’s heartbeat was a constant reminder that the Stranger was lurking somewhere around in the shades, and Sam’s life was balancing on a very precarious line. It brought a dangerous edge to Jon’s already jittery mind.

Jon raised Sam’s hand to his lips and placed a soft kiss inside his palm before placing it back on the bed soon after. Grenn was standing nearby, back facing the door and hands crossed in front of his stomach. An unspoken thought swirled through the room.

_We’ll make whoever did this to you wish he never left his mother’s womb._

As calm as she could and after a very thorough process of consolation, Gilly explained to Jon how Sam stumbled to their house all bloodied and beaten up, eyes so swollen they almost disappeared behind all those bruises. She said he looked like he went through a shredder. After being pummelled by a metal bat like some piece of dough.

He suffered from a punctured lung, three broken ribs, a dislocated shoulder and a very dangerous head injury that ran from the crown of his head all the way to his forehead. Not to mention the copious amounts of blood he lost.

Gilly didn’t beat around the bush, Sam was brutally maltreated.  

When doctor Cressen and director Marwyn entered his periphery, both nearly dropped their files on to the ground in a panic seeing Jon in their hallway. After much of their useless kowtowing and assuring him that Sam would receive the hospital’s utmost dedication, Jon send them on their way and entered Sam’s room to catch a glimpse of his hospitalized friend. The sight made him see blood red.

“Grenn, say your prayers and sweet nothings to Sam, I’m going outside. You’ll have five minutes. Pypar will get his turn to speak with Sam while we wait in the car.” Grenn bobbed his head and Jon made room for his bulky figure to come nearer, and with a couple of steps, Jon exited the chamber and was greeted by a fresh waft of cold wind hitting his cheeks. Gilly had perched herself back on the plastic bench, hunched up and almost swallowed by Jon’s black coat, the piece of cloth engulfing her diminutive form like an oversized blanket as she clutched its rims and buried herself further into its heat. The poor woman didn’t even put on a proper jacket in her panic to bring down Sam to the IC.

Jon rummaged through the inside pockets of his jacket and pulled out his phone, dialled Satin’s number and waited for the call to be picked up.

**_“Lord Targaryen, I was just about to call you, sir. Mr. Varys has arrived and patiently awaits for your meeting.”_ **

**_“Good. Serve him his usual plate, the Gods know how much that tongue of his loosens when a well-prepared meal and a bottle of Dornish white is served up to him. Pyp, Grenn and I will be there in a short while. Has Daenerys already come home yet?”_ **

**_“Yes sir, she came home a little after you left the building. Lady Daenerys is currently occupied in entertaining our guest, but waits for your word. Is there anything else I can be of service of, sir?”_ **

**_“Yes, one more thing, Satin. Send Sigor Thenn and a batch of my best associates up towards St. Baelor’s, Sam’s practice and house. I need him and Gilly protected every minute of the day. I will not have them lost out of my sight.”_ **

**_“Of course sir, I’ll make the necessary calls and have them under our radar.”_ **

Jon hummed before he stashed away his phone, digesting the information that was thrown as food for his thoughts. With that taken care of, his thoughts returned on his guest. He knew Varys and Daenerys were good friends, attached to the hip even. He never understood this queer friendship between his aunt and that enigmatic eunuch. Both were suckers for juicy gossips and shady schemes. Jon only tolerated that man’s existence for his resourcefulness and cunning. The web of information that spider had spun over the course of years was impressive, if not downright frightening. And his aunt was good friends with him, Jon couldn’t help but be cordial to him too, even if Varys’ allegiances could shift like quicksand any minute of the day.

Out of the corner of Jon’s eye, he spotted Pyp marching towards him, and Jon beckoned with his head to the door behind. He got the message loud and clear and soundlessly got inside. With Jon’s heart somewhat eased knowing Sam was at least alive and kicking, he padded off and knelt in front of Gilly, taking her hands in his own.

“Listen Gilly, I need to go and make some errands. A group of men are coming to protect both you and Sam here, so don’t panic when a sea of black-suited men surround you. Sigor will pick you up, bring you home so you can take a shower and come a little to senses.” For a spare moment, she glanced up and locked her eyes, still glassy and faraway, with Jon’s, not fully understanding what was being said to her. Jon unclasped her hands and cupped her face with such care, as if she was made of the most fragile porcelain and his hands a pair of sledgehammers. “I promise, on my mother’s name, Samwell will get through this. Do you hear me, Gilly Tarly? Samwell will survive this, and I’ll make sure whoever did this will pay in blood for hurting a man so pure and kind-hearted as Samwell Tarly. Mark my words.” Jon’s words finally seemed to pierce through her veil of cylindering depression, and she tentatively nodded, a rueful smile tucking at her lips. She mouthed a soft ‘thank you’ back to him.

With a gentle pat to her cheek, Jon stretched his legs and stood to his full height, and Gilly was about to shrug off the fur coat, but Jon stopped her with a hand on her trembling shoulder.

“Keep it, you’ll need it harder than I.”

Jon didn’t wait for Gilly to answer him as his feet dragged him away towards the stairs leading down to the ground floor. The lobby was less hectic than an hour before. Only a few patients scurried here and there led by their doctor or attending nurse. Jon now had the calm of thinking clearly without the fuss around. And his thoughts weren’t pretty.

Seeing Sam all bandaged and deadly taciturn, with only that damnable machine registering his heartbeat as a sign of life, Jon felt unadulterated wrath waking up in the deepest recess of his heart. A fury so holy, it would cleanse the High Septon of his decadence. Who would dare to commit such a crime as hurting Samwell Tarly, a man as pious as a saint? A doctor for God’s sake, dedicated to save the lives of the pained and woeful. It made him grit his teeth for Gilly’s sake for the utter injustice.

In his lapse of mind, Jon didn’t see Grenn behind him, who had followed suit Jon took note, already done with saying his piece and allowing Pyp to have a moment of Sam’s time.

“The guy who did that to Sam? Yeah, he’s in for a lot of pain, I’ll give you that much. When I get my hands around his neck, I’m gonna keep twisting until it looks like a twis–”

Jon pressed a hand on his friend’s chest, stopping him, and his countenance was carved into a scowl so immensely chilling, Grenn had to take a step back and gulp, his Adam’s apple bobbing down as he did so. If looks could freeze, Grenn would have been turned into one of those White Walkers old crones liked to tell their kids to scare them into bed.

“You won’t so much as _lift_ a finger without my consent, Grenn. He’s not yours to punish.” Grenn looked positively nonplussed, and was ready to argue if Jon’s next words didn’t halt his advance and send an even bigger chill down his spine. “He’s mine… utterly and completely mine. And don’t worry, I’ll make him taste the pain he inflicted on Sam a hundredfold. If there’s one thing I can do well above all things.”

“It’s dishing out justice… we know that, Jon.”

“And you know what they say. I will let justice be done, even if heaven itself falls.”

* * *

The ride back to Aegon’s Spire was full of unsaid promises. Pyp, after he saw Sam’s condition, nearly broke off the wheel of their car, his knuckles going bone-white as though he wanted to snap the object in two. Grenn wasn’t much better, but he at least managed to temper down his rage by smoking through cigarette after cigarette, a man obsessed in getting himself under control, not at all bothered damaging his lungs with every inhale he took. Jon allowed it this time. He knew the anger that was bubbling beneath Grenn’s and Pyp’s skin was like molten rock, _lava_ hot, eager to burst from the cauldron, and Jon wanted that anger tempered and cooled off. Their anger, as it was, struck like a blunt sword. It needed a whetstone. Anger, when subtle and rational, was far more deadly than searing hot rage.

Tormund was already combing out the city for any scrap of information he could get his hands on. Beating it out of slimy little snakes squirming beneath the ground was a better way of describing it, because Tormund’s rage was something one could behold from the stars. His anger was a sword no man on this world could temper. Tormund almost threw around furniture in his bout of anger when he heard of Sam’s condition. Sam was Gilly’s husband after all, and she was Tormund’s precious little niece.

_Nobody breaks my little niece’s heart, King Crow. You hear me? Nobody. I don’t care if this guy is armed to the teeth with guns or the boy-whore of some rich and powerful cunt, I’m gonna tear off his arms, then his legs, gut him and make him eat his liver. After I’ve fucked a bloody hole in his skull._

He was ready to use more of his profane language, but Daenerys had silenced him with a scalding glare and a sharp click of her tongue in disapproval, and Tormund went tight-lipped and marched off muttering about getting himself a drink and then hunt down whoever got Sam into the hospital.

A small hand started rubbing him between his scapulae, soft, delicate and oh so _tender_ that Jon couldn’t help the relieved sigh tumbling over his lips. He could feel the warmth of it through the thick layers of his finely tailored clothes, the very _care_ within its touch, and seep into his very bones.

“Welcome back, dear nephew.” A silky soft lilt spoke, kind and affectionate but underlined with a power only a woman strong in her heels could have. Jon turn his head to the side and saw the smile of his lovely aunt Daenerys spread across her lips. Her hand didn’t stop its ministrations, rubbing away the tension that Jon didn’t know was even there and for a brief second, something Jon was really not known for, he _smiled_ back for a change. Then the gravity of the whole situation dawned upon Jon again, and his mouth pressed into a firm line like it was earlier.

“Where’s Varys, Dany?” Jon’s impeccable mask had replaced his smile, shrugging off the great fur coat when Satin reached out to his shoulders. His aunt led him by the arm deeper into their house and Daenerys gesticulated with a dainty finger towards the dinner room, a hand still pressed against his bicep. Before he could enter, a tuck to his arm brought him back to Daenerys’s attention, and she sought his eyes with her own violet gems pointedly.

“How is Sam doing? I’ve been kept in the dark for quite a while now, and it’s starting to bother me.” Her hold on his arm tightened, anxiety Jon deduced, and he patted her hand with his own, offering another one of his preciously small smiles as Daenerys always described them.

“Luckily, he’s still breathing. Took one hell of a beating, but he’s resilient, thank the Gods. Gilly has been taken care of, and I’ve send Sigorn as their protector.”

Daenerys nodded. “Good, I’ll send Rakharo and some of his men just for good measure. I’ll be a fool if I allow an incident like this repeat to itself. Poor Sam, the man is an angel. I almost cried when his condition reached my ears.” Her pure white-blonde locks of spun snow dangled from side to side as she shook her head, lamenting over poor Sam. “Go and talk to the sweet smelling Spider. He’s been eager to have a word with you since his arrival, Jon.”

“Oh? He hasn’t waggled off your ears with his tongue? I reckon then it was quite the chat you two had if didn’t involve finding the man responsible for this tasteless joke.”

“Oh you’d be intrigued, darling. And to answer your question, no, Varys hasn’t spoken to me about his business and insisted on sharing it only with you. ” Daenerys gave him a shrewd little smile, telling him she knew something that he didn’t. Yet, anyway. No matter, Daenerys always had her own way of handling the affairs of their family, and Jon never considered it a conflict to his, to their, interest. He would find it out through her lips one way or another. He always did.

Because even if his methods involved guns and violence.

Hers involved intrigue and subterfuge.

And it wasn’t any less effective.

Two approaches, different spectra.

But they had their interests always aligned.

Daenerys gave him a short little peck between his stubbled cheek and mouth, then ushered him forth to go and meet with Varys before she sashayed off to manage her own agenda. Two servants already opened the intricately decorated doors and a sea of scents invaded Jon’s nostrils.

Seated at the end of the long table to the right where the head of the family usually sat was a man dressed in such rich silky robes of various colourful tints that Jon momentarily thought he had a rainbow entrapped inside his house. His damasks were from deep emerald green and golden yellow across the inner sides of his jacket and robe to lurid scarlet hues around the girth and embroideries of his sleeves and trousers. Varys taste in fashion was… strange to put it mildly. Extravagant and strange.

As he was cutting into his venison with his knife, Jon took note of the three burly rings around his middle, ring and little finger, each one of them made of reddish gold and inserted with tiny rubies and sapphires. Jon’s closest was always filled with the most expensive of tailored clothes fresh out of Highgarden, each piece possibly costing a millionaire’s worth. Yet, as he took in the clean-shaven man with his effeminate smells of posh Dornish fragrances fuming around him like a thick cloak of protection, Jon felt as though he was clad like a vagabond.

“My Lord Targaryen, so good of you to join me on this lovely evening.” He wiped his mouth and fingers with a serviette, and made to rise from his place with that same saccharin smile he always dazzled Daenerys. Or any other guest. Varys’ forte were his words. He was as smooth with them as the cheeks of a baby.

“Please remain seated, Varys, I have no want for formalities and etiquettes right now.” His smile lessened, by only a hair’s difference, and did as he was bid, bringing back his plump girth into his chair and taking his cutlery in hand again. Jon took the seat at the head of the table and as he did so, a steaming plate of freshly smoked salmon rinsed in lemon juice with a small side salad of snipped carrots, cauliflower, lettuce, baked onions and sweet pepper was brought before his nose.

“Lady Daenerys won’t be joining us tonight, Lord Targaryen?” Before Jon took a bite, he brought his wine glass to his lips and sipped on a deep red Dornish wine. Wines weren’t usually his given choice, but they served the purpose as an appetizer for a meal better. Whisky, not so much. That was more of an indulgence for him.

“No, from what Jorah told me, she already had dinner at her office. Running a multi-billionaire firm like the Golden Company sometimes calls for sacrifices. It’s been quite some time, sadly, since she and I shared a meal in peace.”

“Oh dear, that sounds dreadful. I can only imagine the burden it puts on the poor woman. I could never endure something as unbearable, I must admit.” Jon swallowed a piece of his salmon and thoroughly savoured its rich taste before he spoke again.

“Your modesty is always refreshing. You almost make yourself sound like you’re some harmless man just having dinner with close acquaintances.”

“Am I not then, Jon?” At the mention of his name, Jon momentarily stopped cutting into his salmon and looked straight into those beady eyes of Varys, their sharpness putting a kitchen knife to shame.

“There it is, the Spider coming to weave his web. This mummery you’ve been playing has certainly done you wonders, hasn’t it, Varys?” The man in question chuckled, mysterious and self-deprecating in his tone, and took a sip of his own wine.

“Once, I told your dear departed uncle that a eunuch has no need for a honest face, and a spider does not enjoy the luxury of scruples. It’s a hard principle to follow, but not once have I strayed from my loyalties to your family.”

“And have you acted upon your loyalties to my family?”

“You can be the judge of that yourself, Jon.” Varys snapped his finger, and a young boy barely older than an elementary pupil neared, clutching a blue file to his chest, garbed freshly and clean though dull and sober too. He ran up to their dinner table much to Jon’s well-hidden surprise and handed over the folder before he scurried off again. How could Jon not have noticed him lurking the shadows of his curtains?

“Oh don’t fret, my lord. The little birds are an extension of me, so their loyalties lie with you as well. I’ve trained them well to keep to the shades and be my invisible hands whenever I feel the need for an extra pair.”

The ambivalence Jon felt for that crooked claim was not wholly unjustified. There were children waddling about with the efficiency of trained spies, hiding in the nooks and crannies of his penthouse. And they answered only to Varys. To add insult to injury, Varys claimed them to be loyal to Jon too? He had yet to be convinced of that.

With the care of a father laying down his newly born child, Varys placed the blue folder next to Jon’s plate, who picked it up by its edge.

“All will be explained in that folder.” Intrigued, Jon was about to open it and start skimming through, but Varys tutted in objection. “Now don’t go spoiling this lovely evening, my lord, with business matters. Enjoy dinner with a good friend and let us share some stories, like I did with dear Dany. I’ve been patient enough and now wish to hear how the doctor is doing.”

Jon looked up from the files and his eyebrows almost disappeared in his hairline. What did Varys care if Sam was doing good or not? It was painfully obvious and of little importance to a man like Varys. The only things this enigma of a man cared for were the fragrances glued to his fat person, the food rumbling inside his stomach and the carefully construed words falling down his lips or permeating his ears. Perhaps it was the simple urge for information itself that propelled this question. He thrived on gaining and giving things that people wanted to know. Varys was a librarian and his mind his own library, filled and catalogued with apocryphal knowledge about whatever caught his fancy.

By some strange force in the world, he felt compelled to acquiesce to Varys and motioned with his finger to a nearby servant to come and pick up the file and bring it to Satin’s attention.

The manhunt had to put on hold for the moment.

A spider needed to be entertained right now.

Jon couldn’t be bothered, but declining Varys was tantamount to jeopardy.

Once ensnared, you’d be twice damned for tucking at the web.

And allow the spider to devour you whole.

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, honestly, by this point I'm posting stuff stored away in my dim-litted map files to keep myself from posting the big WIP that I'm sure is not ready to be posted as such. Still mulling about that, and it drives me crazy. It's also a very shy attempt at gauging a general audience's interest. 
> 
>  
> 
> Anyway, please don't be shy to voice out your thoughts. I'm told to be open-minded and a good listener. I'm always up to debate nitty gritty stuff.


End file.
